Thick And Thin
by SerpentineJ
Summary: Malcolm can't stop having overtly… sexual thoughts about Ollie. Then his thoughts start to turn… domestic.


**NOTE: Ugh. This fucking pairing. I'm pretty sure it's… psychologically unhealthy and more than a little fucked up, but of course I went and thought, "hey, let's write some damn fluff".**

**Fucking hell, in my mind, Malcolm is just damn lonely and attracted to Ollie and Ollie has a massive damn crush on him and dear God, I need help.**

**Also, I stuck this ship name as Olicolm because fuck it, there's nothing on the internet. Maybe I'll be captain of a ship yet.**

**Also I think Malcolm Tucker is rubbing off on me, but I could be wrong.**

When Malcolm starts making jokes that are less about Ollie's appearance and more about his sexual orientation and prowess, he knows he's in trouble.

OMOMOMOMO

Perform a cavity search, he growls, shaking a finger in Reeder's face, keeping him pinned against the wall.

Malcolm hears his internal Scot (who is actually _worse_ than him in a quiet, sarcastically scathing way) scoffs, _yeah, cavity search, and you'd like to be doing it with your tongue and a condom in a dark room_, kicking his feet up on his fucking mental desk (of course it's mahogany) and smirking.

_Shut up._

OMOMOMOMO

"Hey! Ollie!" Tucker shouts through the office door, thick Scottish accent bouncing off the walls, too busy to come in or use his phone. He sees Reeder gets up, abandoning his swivel chair. "Yeah, you, chinless wonder. I've got a job for you."

Ollie blinks down at him through his glasses, still sporting that stupid fucking grin, and Malcolm has a sudden, powerful urge to knot his fingers in his blue and white tie and pull him flush to him. "Yeah, what is it, Malcolm?"

He clamps down on the itch in his hands, the ones telling him to manhandle this asshole right into his bed, and tosses him a lollipop he snatches from the bowl on Terri's desk. "Here. We've got a lotta shit to do and there's no fuckin' time to eat."

OMOMOMOMO

"Jesus _fuck_, Malcolm. "I'm fucking _knackered_." Ollie slumps into one of the wingback leather armchairs in Tucker's warmly lit office. "Is this what a normal day of yours is like?"

Despite how tired Malcolm is, even for him, he can't quite _not_ notice the way the warm light from his desk lamp catches on his brown curls and suddenly he wants to slide his hands through them, tugging and yanking, shoving Reeder to his knees, undoing his fly-

He jerks out of his reverie when he notices he's been staring, not answering Ollie's question and this is unacceptable, he should have more damn _control_ over himself.

Malcolm exhales, sitting up in his cushy swivel chair. "About… 50% of the time." He chuckles deprecatingly and the man sitting across the desk from him smiles confusedly at the sound. "Jesus fuck, my job fucking sucks sometimes."

"…amen to that."

OMOMOMOMO

"Are they… together?" Glen murmurs to Terri, both of them staring out the window at the pair of people below. "I think Hugh said Ollie's bi when he was here."

Terri nodded, saying, "Yes, I think so. There was that young brown-haired man… what was his name?" She pauses. "And that older fellow. He never said specifically that they were dating but he got awfully red whenever anyone asked how he was in the sack."

They continue speculating and Malcolm isn't even pretending not to listen anymore. "Is Ollie outside? Why isn't he hauling his fuckin' arse in here?"

"He's busy flirting with Dan." Covertly waves a dismissive hand at Tucker, still staring out the second-floor window.

Glen tsks. "He's shuffling his feet and everything. Poor bloke; Dan can be an intimidating guy."

"What?" Terri frowns. "I think he's perfectly sweet. He and Ollie would be positively cute together."

Malcolm's scowl is thunderous now, eyebrows practically casting shadows over his cheeks. "Let me see." He pushes the twittering twats away from the glass and peers out, nose pressing against the cold surface, and growls.

Dan has his hand on Ollie's elbow and the little man in his head smirks, saying, _you know, jealousy is unhealthy. It's not like he's yours._ Bile roils in the pit of his stomach when he sees Reeder laugh at something Dan says, burning his throat and clouding his head.

"What the hell is Dan doing here?" Malcolm spits, and Terri looks at him, surprised at his vitriol.

She says, "Well, presumably they've just come back from their weekly squash game."

Weekly _what_? "Weekly _what_?" He hisses.

"They… go for squash every week." Glen supplies hesitantly. "Dan usually buys Ollie coffee and they get back around 8:30." He rolls his eyes. "Bloody early, in my opinion."

"Buys him _coffee_?" Fucking hell. Malcolm seethes and storms from the room, leaving a bewildered Terri and a frowning Glen.

OMOMOMOMO

"You're saying we should give 'em head?" Ollie is smirking, smug bastard, and Malcolm can't help but grit his teeth, a rush of arousal flooding through his groin.

"Oh. You're clever. Very clever." _Fucking hell._

OMOMOMOMO

Holy fucking biscuit-snatch, he needs to get his kinks under control.

If Malcolm didn't have an iron control over his facial expressions and bodily functions, he'd be hard as a fucking rock, poking a hole through his trousers and fucking his life up.

They've been kidnapped (honestly this isn't the first time and Malcolm isn't surprised, there are so many people in this city who hate him, whose careers he had killed, who would love to throw him under the proverbial- and literal- bus). He's always been rescued relatively quickly and it seems that the kidnapper has no intention of murdering either of them, merely has a personal issue. It's only unfortunate that, seeing as his new driver is the kidnapper, Ollie had happened to get in the car with him.

Or fortunate, he muses, as the younger wriggles against his bonds beside him, unwittingly rubbing their shoulders and sides and tangling their legs together. It's nearly stiflingly warm and there's so much physical contact and the fact that _Malcolm can't fucking think about anything but the need to tie him down and fucking fuck him, torture him, make him beg and moan, debauched sounds falling filthily out of that pretty mouth-_

"Bloody fucking hell, we've gotta get out of here." Ollie is struggling, ropes probably chafing his wrists, and Malcolm can feel his prick overpowering the steel trap of his mental control.

Fuck.

Fuckity fucking _fuck_.

OMOMOMOMO

After they're rescued, Malcolm whacks one off in his shower, hot water running over his shoulders as he braces himself on the tiled wall with one bony hand, the other wrapped around his cock.

The moment he closes his eyes images flood his mind; red-purple bruises marring pale skin, long, lanky limbs and dark hair, bright eyes and soft lips, a scathing, albeit undeveloped wit and a kindness that Malcolm could never hope to have-

He comes, shuddering into his fist, the twist of a specific Junior Advisor's lips etched into the backs of his eyelids and a name on the tip of his tongue.

When Malcolm comes down off his orgasm-induced high, panting and feeling… if not sated, more satisfied, and he soaps his hands before stopping the water and toweling off.

_You're really fucked, you know._ The voice is back and isn't that the first sign of madness, talking to yourself?

Fortunately, Malcolm has always known that he's mad. "Shut up," he scowls into the air and throws his nightclothes on, grabbing a book and settling himself into his side of his bed (he's always stayed on the right, for some unfathomable reason).

His very large, very soft, very cold, empty bed.

_Seriously… _(and isn't it fucked up that his inner Scot sounds like a calmer Jamie?) _You might be really, really screwed. Properly fucked._

Malcolm sighs and rubs his forehead.

He is so, so fucked.

OMOMOMOMO

"What the hell?" Tucker shouts at a near-cowering secretary. "Why the _fucking hell_ is he talking to the damn_ press_?"

She's practically whimpering and Malcolm feels a wave of contempt rise in his stomach, stinging the back of his throat like bile, and turns away. "Just fucking tell me when he gets back." Under his breath, he mutters, "I have to convince him to fucking resign, the sniveling arsehole."

"Malcolm?" Ollie walks up, gaze flicking between the short woman huddled fearfully behind her desk and the angry Scot pacing on the carpet floor, frowning at his hands. "Er. Nicola's going off the rails."

He needs to let out some of this rage, this fire in his belly. He needs to open his jaws and let the fire spew out but he resists, doesn't spit in Reeder's face (and doesn't kiss him, either, no matter how much he wants to) but can't help thinking about how _satisfying_ it would be to utilize this anger in the increasingly kinky directions his mind is taking. He exhales, calming himself.

"Fine." Tucker waves his hand, flapping it in the general direction of Ollie's face. "Lead the fucking way, cowardly lion."

The other scoffs, beginning to walk away, twisting his head over his shoulder to make sure he's following. "Does that make you the tin man or the scarecrow?"

OMOMOMOMO

He's eating the damn lollipop.

Malcolm nearly chokes on his own tongue when he stalks into the DoSAC office and sees Ollie leaning against his desk, reading a paper and swirling the sucker Tucker had given him a few days past.

How can he tell it's the same one? He's wearing the same damn jacket (and Malcolm remembers seeing him shove it in the right hand pocket) and it's the same fucking flavor, the sweet scent of strawberry wafting delicately through the air. An overwhelming need overcomes him to press Reeder against that desk and kiss the breath, the sweetness right out of his mouth, grind against him, bite his neck and hear the noises he makes-

"Morning, Malcolm." Fuck. Ollie's looking at him now and Malcolm would swear if he didn't know he had his bodily reactions completely under control that the smirk appearing on Reeder's face, white lollipop stick sticking out of the corner of his mouth at a jaunty angle, is because he knows, knows what he's doing to him.

Or he's flirting. But that's completely unlikely, despite all Tucker's joking about him being a queer.

This time he has the strangest urge to kiss him, slow and sweet (pun intended), make him grin and toss a bit of banter back and forth.

"Fuck off, Ollie." He's scowling now, in a proper bad mood, stalking into Nicola's office with the full intention of giving _someone_ a proper bollocking to let off some steam.

OMOMOMOMO

In hindsight, it's really not that surprising when Malcolm finally shoves Ollie up against the wall of his fucking office and snogs the living shit out of him.

"Mmmph-" Oliver gets cut off of whatever he's saying by Tucker's lips on his, crushing and warm and devouring. After a brief moment of shock he kisses back, pressing against Malcolm with a little groan.

They break apart after a few minutes, both breathing hard, Ollie flushed and wide-eyed and Tucker looking a mixture of angry and shocked.

"What the…" Reeder breathes, back still pressed against the wall, staring at the other man.

Malcolm pulls away abruptly, something shuttering over his gray eyes, and walks away to lean against his desk, rubbing his forehead. "Just… fucking go."

Oliver doesn't move.

"Fucking LEAVE, you fucking… twatty… sponge-fuck!"

Tucker stands up again and stalks back over to the other man, growling at him, centimeters between their noses. "I said… leave."

If him kissing Ollie was unexpected, Ollie grabbing his tie and kissing him again is even more so.

He growls low in his throat and snakes a hand behind Reeder's neck, pulling him flush to himself, and feels the other man's hands come up to grip his shoulders. At the sound coming from Malcolm's mouth Ollie moans, pushing his hips up to grind against Tucker's and Malcolm can feel the warm, insistent pressure of another cock shoved against his.

The Scot detaches his mouth from the other man's and leans up to whisper in his ear, growl about all the things he wants to do to him, handcuffs and leather paddles and cock rings, still grinding insistently against him.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Malcolm hisses in a delicate ear, biting the ridge at the top and sucking the lobe, grinning wickedly at the moan it elicits. "Tied to my bed, fucking handcuffs and all, getting a spanking like the little shit you are, or, or, a vibrator up your fucking ass, pinned to your fucking prostate, you begging for my cock, a ring around your dick, not able to fucking come until I say so."

Ollie gasps, pressing desperately against him. "Yes, yes, yes." He begs. "Please."

Tucker smirks, licking one last stroke up Reeder's neck, feeling the younger man shudder and reveling in it. "If you say so."

OMOMOMOMO

"Mmm." They crash through Malcolm's front door, still snogging (Malcolm had nearly crashed the car on their way, he's so fucking distracted). He draws back and grabs Ollie by the shirt collar, literally dragging him (albeit not unwillingly), to his bedroom.

Oliver pauses. "You… weren't joking about the handcuffs and the cock ring, right?"

Malcolm shoves him onto the bed and stalks to the closet. "Of course not."

"Good. Because that's really fucking hot."

Tucker reemerges from the other room with a box and pauses at the sight of Ollie's naked body. He must have undressed while he was in the closet (heh). Opening it, he picks a few things out and shuts it quickly, hiding the contents from Ollie's questing eyes.

"What else is in there?"

Malcolm grins. "Something we'll play with later." He drops the box on the floor and twirls a pair of handcuffs around his long index finger. "All in good time, Oliver."

The other man lets out a surprised groan at the sound of his full name and arches up, laying on the bed, hands clutched at his side to prevent himself touching his cock.

The click of the cuffs around his wrist makes him look up and Ollie is chained to the headboard.

Malcolm leans up to kiss him and he responds as much as he can, but Tucker recedes before long and Ollie is left bereft.

He groans at the click of a leather ring around the base of his dick. "Damnit, Malcolm."

"You asked for this." The Scottish accent is damn sexy, Oliver thinks.

At the first touch of a hand to his cock the man in restraints gasps. "God. Fuck."

"Eventually."

There's a sound of a bottle being uncapped and a dollop of cold gel lands on the head of his dick.

"Fuck."

"Soon."

"Malcolm."

"Patience, you wanker."

"Please, Malcolm."

The Scot snakes a hand up to Ollie's chest and tweaks a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, reveling in the choked inhale and the way the man below him arches into it. "You fucking like this?"

"God, yes." He moans. "Please."

"Next time," he pants, "I'll bring you over and do you proper." He pinches the nipple. "Cook." Twist. "Wash up." He soothes it with a gentle stroke and moves on to the other. "And then I'll keep you so fucking hard you won't be able to think about anything, _anything_," He illustrates his point with another twist and Ollie gasps, "but me. Fucking you."

Usually Malcolm would like to take a little more time, absolutely torture Oliver, keep him hard and begging for hours, but he's too damn desperate and eager to get his cock in him as quickly as possible.

There's another squirt of the bottle and Malcolm spreads the lube over his fingers, stroking the cleft of Ollie's arse with the index, grinning at the way he bucks backwards.

"Malc. Please." He's begging. Tucker gets harder, if that's even fucking possible. "Just. Fuck me."

He doesn't reply, just slides his finger in and crooks it a bit, smiling crookedly when Reeder gasps.

"More."

Adding another, he thrusts and twists, Ollie's pants and pleas coming faster and more desperately, and when he angles his fingers that _specific way_ and applies the pressure to the tips of them, Oliver jumps and curses, eyes flying so wide open, arching and whining, high-pitched in the back of his throat.

"Fuck. _Fuck._"

"You fucking like that?" Malcolm grins. "Tell me how much you fucking like it."

He moans. "Please, Malcolm. Fuck. More." There's a pause, Tucker not moving at all, and then Ollie begs, "Fucking hell, just fuck me."

"Mmm." He removes his fingers, slicking up his dick. "If you insist."

When he thrusts in Malcolm curses, hissing, "fuck," and Reeder clamps down on him, moaning nonstop and panting.

"God. Malc. More. _God_."

He speeds up, angling his thrusts until Ollie is whining, a high-pitched keen building in the back of his throat, and soon his pleas morph.

"Malc. Please. Let me. I need to-"

Tucker immediately slows down despite every atom of his body screaming at him to keep going, rolling his hips and leaning down to kiss between Ollie's shoulder blades. "Tell me."

"Please."

"Fucking tell me how much," he punctuates it with a thrust, "you want," another, "to fucking," deeper this time, "come."

Reeder is moaning uncontrollably now. "Fuck. Malcolm. I'll do… anything." Another thrust, another gasp. "Please. Anything."

"Anything?" Tucker reaches around to stroke the head of the other's cock, a light touch, flicking his thumb to smear the precome across the skin. "Suck me off underneath my fucking desk?" He speeds up. "Let me leave a plug in your fucking arse? Use a vibrator on your ass?"

Ollie gasps. "Yes. Yes. Anything and- fuck- everything."

Malcolm hisses and pulls Oliver's cock, undoing the ring and pulling it off. Immediately he's coming, shouting, "fuck, _fuck_, Malcolm, _Malc_, God," and Tucker follows him soon after, hissing, "Damnit, Ollie," and emptying himself into the panting man beneath him.

OMOMOMOMO

A minute later, Ollie comes to, blinking, feeling ridiculously sated, to the feeling of a warm towel wiping his lower stomach, swiping across his now-flaccid cock.

"Malc?" He says, sitting up. "You didn't strike me as the type to clean up."

Tucker rolls his eyes and throws the hand towel into his hamper. "Shut the fuck up."

He folds back the duvet on the left side of the bed and slides in. Oliver nearly snorts as the word "snuggle" comes to mind; Malcolm Tucker, snuggling into a blanket.

Reeder sits there for a moment, feeling awkward, until Malcolm cracks an eye open. "What are you waiting for, you daft wanker? Get in."

He scrambles under the cover and marvels at how soft the sheets are. Of course Malcolm would have sheets with a ridiculously high thread count, he thinks, and that's his last thought as he drifts off to sleep.

Ollie barely registers the brush of a hand against his, and by the time Tucker wraps his fingers around his wrist, twining their fingers, he's already dead asleep.

OMOMOMOMO

Of course, when Malcolm wakes up, it's Saturday and there's a long, lanky body positively tangled with his, a mop of curly brown hair obscuring most of his vision and long arms wrapped around his waist, a nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck and feet pressed to his.

It's warm, and soft, and everything Malcolm had repressed his desire for.

He buries his chin in the dark curls so conveniently resting on his chest and closes his eyes, allowing himself to drift.

OMOMOMOMO

When Ollie wakes up, the first thing he registers is the scent in his nose. Musky and spicy, cinnamon and oranges, and it smells remarkably like Malcolm-

His eyes shoot open and he looks up into a pair of gray-blue eyes.

"Er."

Malcolm raises an eyebrow.

"I'll just."

There's something quirking the edges of his mouth and Ollie is struck by the urge to kiss the corner, so he does, leaning up and pecking it, drawing back with a blush.

He feels the chest he's lying on dip suddenly with a huff and he peers up again, but Malcolm is smiling, honest to god smiling, and there's something so sweet about it Oliver wants to stay here and never let him leave, because if he left he would turn from sweet-smiling-exasperated Malcolm to scary-shouty-intimidating but still sexy Malcolm, and while he does love the latter, Ollie wants to spend more time with the former.

"Shut up, Malcolm."

OMOMOMOMO

Eventually they do have to get up, though Malcolm doesn't bother changing out of his nightclothes and he tosses Ollie a set to wear, and when Ollie's changed he walks downstairs to the sight of Malcolm.

Cooking.

"Are you serious?"

Tucker glances at him, keeping an eye on the skillet with… what looks like pancakes cooking in it. "What?"

"You're cooking?"

"… of course. Don't tell me you eat fucking takeout for breakfast-"

"I think I might be in love with you." Ollie blurts out, eyes wide and looking shocked at the words coming out of his mouth.

Malcolm freezes.

Immediately Reeder backtracks, scrambling, saying, "Er. I mean. I could be mistaken, if you think this should just be a… don't ask, don't tell, one-time thing that's fine with me, whatever you want-"

"You… love me?"

Ollie frowns. "Um. I think. Unless you're uncomfortable with it."

Malcolm blinks, something suspiciously like hope adding a gleam to his eye. "I think I might be able to keep you around."

"…sorry, what is that translated form the native language of Malcopolis to plain English?"

The Scot rolls his eyes and returns his attentions to the pancakes. "I might love you too, ya twat."

**NOTE: Honestly, I find it surprising that no one in the TTOI universe has been kidnapped. Especially Malcom.**

**Also, this fic is officially longer than my 3500 paper that's due tonight at midnight. Fuck me. I'm pretty sure this is the longest damn one-shot I've ever written.**

**Why is there absolutely nothing on the internet about this ship? If you read this far down you should check out the Olicolm blog I set up: .com**

**Oh, oh, first time writing actual sex! What did you think?**


End file.
